Rushed: Hushed Part 15

"Not on your life." I stepped forward and read the sign cards. "Chocolate ganache. Raspberry lemonade. Pink champagne!"

One of the women manning the booth approached us. She smiled at me. "Try as many as you like." She handed me a brochure. "Here's our price list and a bit about us. Is this your first bridal show?"

"Yes." I nodded, relieved at her sympathetic smile.

"Have you set a date yet?"

I turned to Mom.

"Summer next year."

"Excellent!" The woman smiled at me. "Plenty of time for planning. Have you booked the venue? Will your wedding be local?"

"Oh!" I finally got it. I pulled Mom forward. "I'm not the bride. My mom is." I pointed to Mom.

"So sorry!" The woman laughed. "One should never a.s.sume. But really, you two look like you could be sisters."

And so the flattery and upsell of Mom began as the lady grilled her about what she was looking for and whether she'd picked a bakery yet.

At booth after booth, I was mistaken for the bride and Mom for the mother of the bride. It was a natural enough a.s.sumption. There weren't that many fifty-something-year-old brides in attendance. Finally, a woman at one of the photography booths gave Mom a big sticker that said "bride" and a "maid of honor" one for me.

"That should do the trick," the lady said. "Now, have you selected a photographer?"

She'd been nice enough to give us the stickers, so we sat through her speech, entered her drawing, and took her card with a promise to keep her in mind.

"Was it like this when you married Dad?" I asked Mom when we finally took a breather and found a bench to sit on for a few minutes to try and clear our minds from the sensory overload of the show.

"No." She stared out over the booths with a faraway look in her eyes. "We had a small, casual wedding."

Beneath the tiredness, I thought I detected an edge of bitterness and resignation. Not what I expected. Not what I'd hoped for.

"I was pregnant with Ian." She turned to look at me. "I'm sure you've figured that out by now." She sighed. "I had to get married...quickly. Before I showed much more."

It was as if the "quickly" was an afterthought to cover the accidental resentment that had slipped into her voice. I had to get married meant something else entirely. Suspecting what I did, I felt the horror of it.

"I wore a loose gunnysack wedding dress. Thank goodness for the flowing, hippie-like styles of the day." She reached over and brushed my hair behind my ear like she had when I was small.

"It wasn't the wedding you dreamed of?" I watched her closely.

She twisted a brochure she'd been holding. "Not exactly, no."

"You wanted a fairy tale wedding?"

"I wanted a fairy tale." She didn't elaborate.

This time, the omission of the word "wedding" was telling. It was like she was lying while trying to be completely truthful. Lies of omission are still lies, Mom.

"I know." I sighed. "Dad shouldn't have died. Prince Charming doesn't die in the fairy tales."

Her eyes went wide. She looked startled that that was the way I'd taken her statement. Like that wasn't what she'd been thinking at all.

"No, Mads. He shouldn't have died." She sounded fierce. "He was a decent, loyal man. He deserved better."

Decent. Loyal. Both true and both d.a.m.ningly faint praise. There was no glowing remembrance in her voice, just regret.

I hadn't noticed before that she always referred to Dad in those terms. My good friend. Loyal. Decent. True. Kind.

"Love isn't like it's portrayed in fairy tales. Friends.h.i.+p and reliability count for more than romantic notions of princes on white horses."

What she was saying made me incredibly sad. I thought of Seth and wanted to scream at her that she was wrong. The guy you loved could be your good friend, too. They didn't have to be mutually exclusive.

I blurted out what I was thinking: "Why did you marry Dad?"

She c.o.c.ked her head, studying me as she considered her answer. "Because of Ian. I didn't want to raise my baby without a dad. Some women could. But I wasn't that strong."

I was parsing absolutely everything she said. I couldn't help myself. But it was blatantly obvious that she hadn't said, "Because I loved him madly and couldn't imagine life without him."

Which is what I wanted to hear. And I noticed, too, that she called Ian "my baby" not "ours." And "without a dad" rather than "without his dad."

Subtle distinctions? Maybe. But totally d.a.m.ning.

Before I could ask another question, she reached over and patted my knee. "Let's try on some dresses. Both of us! Won't that be fun? What do you say?" Her voice was falsely bright.

I nodded. I would have done anything to please her and lighten the mood. "Yeah."

The biggest, best wedding dress booth was in the back of the main showroom near the restrooms, which doubled as changing rooms. It was like a mini wedding dress boutique-racks and racks of dresses, round platforms to stand on before three-way mirrors. And signs advertising one-day special bridal fair discounts if you buy now.

I stared over the racks. "I had no idea there were so many shades of white." I pursed my lips. "What color are you looking for? White white? Cream? Pinkish white?"

"Cream. This is my second marriage." She sounded definite.

"I don't think anybody cares about that these days, Mom. Get whatever color you want. Go wild. Get a light pink or even lavender. Something fun."

She shook her head. "Those are for the girl brides. I need something sedate and cla.s.sy. Something that hides my matronly figure."

She made herself sound a million years old.

"You don't look matronly!" I gave her my chastising stare, the one that was the complete mimic of hers.

She laughed. "Compared to you, I do."

We began cruising the racks, and even though I had a maid of honor sticker prominently displayed, I got more attention than Mom did. I gave up and pretended we were mother and daughter brides. I ended up with a half a dozen dresses to try on. Mom found two.

We shuffled into the restroom and each s.h.i.+mmied into our first-choice dress as far as we could without help. Mom didn't actually need much help with her long cream sheath dress with a draping back. It was plain and cla.s.sy. No corset top. A zipper. Very few b.u.t.tons. I helped her straighten it in the back as I held the white gown I was wearing in place over my chest with one hand.

"You look beautiful!" I told her.

The look on her face said she didn't believe me, that I was just humoring her.

"Turn around." She made a spinning motion with her finger. "I'll lace you up. And then we'll flatter each other silly."

The dress I wore b.u.t.toned in back up to the waist and had a corset top. I held my hair up out of the way.

"Suck it in like an old-time Southern belle." Mom grabbed the laces.

I laughed. "If you plant your foot on my back so you can lace all my breath out of me, I'm going to disown you as a mother."

She laughed. "While I'm wearing this dress?" You have to be kidding."

"Don't lace me too tight. If I'm getting married, I want enough room to eat the chicken dinner."

We were suddenly having fun, laughing and joking with each other as she tugged and pulled. I flashed back to shopping for my prom dress. How proud Mom had been. How sad that Dad wasn't there to see it.

When she finished, I grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the bathroom to the podium in front of the three-sided mirrors that were set up in the booth.

"Get up and take a look at how gorgeous you look!" I took her hand and helped her step up. "See for yourself that I'm not lying!"

She stood sideways and looked at herself from every angle. Her face softened, but I saw the critical look in her eyes.

I was so caught up in Mom's experience that I barely noticed one of the ladies from the boutique come up next to me.

She gasped. "You are the most beautiful bride we've had all day! That dress is perfect on you. I swear. I would love to use you in our brochure."

Mom turned, beaming from the compliment.

Which is when we both noticed the woman was talking to me.

I blushed. "Oh, I don't know-"

"Don't be modest! Your groom is a very lucky man," the shopkeeper said. "Here, let me tie the bow better for you. This is one occasion where it's absolutely essential to look good from the back. There's a trick I can show you." She spun me around and untied the bow Mom had made.

I caught Mom's expression. Tears glittered in her eyes as she looked at me. And something else. More regret? The desire to be young again? I couldn't tell.

The shopkeeper faced me toward the mirror. As I caught my reflection, I pictured Seth walking down the aisle toward me. My eyes teared up. Because the odds of that ever happening were becoming thinner and thinner. Not that I was ready to think of marriage. But I didn't want to lose him, either.

c.r.a.p, I was in so much trouble.

Chapter 13.

Maddie We came home from the wedding fair exhausted, with a bag full of samples, giveaways, and business cards. We trooped into the house.

I dumped the contents of my bag on the kitchen counter. "What am I going to do with all this stuff?" I pushed aside a pink pen with the name of a caterer on it.

I picked up a pair of treat boxes shaped like a headless groom in a black tux and a headless bride in a white dress with a pink bow, and clunked them together like they might be kissing. "I don't play with dolls anymore."

Mom laughed.

I pulled out a photo strip of Mom and me wearing mustaches and feather boas. We'd stood in line for the photo booth inside a stall that sold fun things for your guests to do. Like take silly pictures with props in a photo booth.

"I think you should definitely get this! Girls with pink mustaches as a souvenir of your wedding? Who wouldn't want a reminder like this, huh? Silliness to the core. No matter what you have to sacrifice in your budget to make it happen, you must have a photo booth."

Mom smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

I fell into a comfy chair in the family room across from the kitchen. "I hope you win something from the wedding fair. Like one of the boudoir photo sessions."

"Madison Foster!" Mom put her hands on her hips and tried to look stern. But her lips twitched like she was trying not to laugh.

"What?" I said innocently. "You looked gorgeous today. You're going to be a beautiful bride."

She came into the family room and sat on the sofa. "No, you made a beautiful bride." Her eyes filled with pride, but she wounded wistful. She got a nostalgic look on her face. "If only I were young again..." She sighed. "Seeing you in that dress you reminded me of a much younger me."

I seized my opportunity. "You were a beautiful young bride, Mom. Can we look at your wedding pictures to Daddy?"

She looked startled. "Maddie-"

"Please, Mom. I know it's hard. And maybe it's not super tactful of me to ask to see them now. But I miss Dad so much. Just one look?"

It had never occurred to me before to question why she never kept her wedding pictures up.

She sighed and got up. "They're in the closet in my room."

I followed her upstairs to her room and sat on her bed while she looked for them. I rarely went in there. I noticed, as if struck, that there were no pictures of my dad up. Given she was going to marry Ken, maybe that was natural. But still...

She pulled an old photo alb.u.m from the top shelf of her closet. "We practically eloped. So we didn't have a professional photographer. There aren't many pictures."

She opened a page of the book and pulled out a four-by-six snapshot and handed it to me.

My parents looked very young. I loved my dad, adored him, really. But looking at my parents' wedding picture, I was struck by how mismatched they were. He was a tall, gangly nerd. Beaming from ear to ear like he'd just scored the fantasy girl of his dreams.

Even pregnant, Mom was absolutely gorgeous. Way out of his league, looks-wise. A ten to his four. Like she and Ken were.

She looked peaked and pale. Which you could chalk up to morning sickness and being in the early stages of pregnancy. But the sad, haunted, betrayed look in her eyes?

My imagination was running wild. I had to be making all this stuff up out of worry, right? Imagining looks in eyes. Why was I suddenly seeing things I'd never noticed before?

The nineteen-year-old girl in the picture looked like she would rather be anywhere but there. Resigned. Determined. Sad.

Dad had his arm around her, pinching her dress with his fingers where his hand rested around her waist like he would never let her go. And she was leaning away from him. Ever so slightly. But it was there. Just like with Ken. Her body language was undeniable.

I looked up at Mom with a question in my eyes.